Italian Connection (4)

One master of Fingertips subdues a hundred underlings.
-Vladimir Ilyich Lenin-

After hearing from Rossetti the hideout of Pietro Venucci, the mastermind of this kidnapping, and the faction he belonged to, I immediately handed him over to a Scotland Yard constable who had been staking out near the shop.

Mrs. Hudson, irritated at Rossetti for thoroughly disparaging her cooking, showed enthusiasm about going with us to teach the underworld men a lesson (more precisely, to make them eat British-style Italian food no matter what), but since I did not want to drag her into the vicious Vendetta of Italian underworld men, I politely urged her to go home.

The Isle of Dogs was already surrounded by Scotland Yard inspectors, so it would be difficult to escape and carry news to the Camorra’s home base, but still, if Mrs. Hudson involved herself directly, she might become the target of assassins’ relentless pursuit.

It was not as though Mrs. Hudson was soft enough to be done in by the average scoundrel, but unlike Watson, Mycroft had not made her a focused protection target of the British Intelligence Butler Agency, so there was no other way.

I was taking Watson because, as a retired soldier, she possessed ample skill to fight underworld men, and because she had shown herself a steadier assistant than before.

Watson, having dispelled her drunkenness through Breath Control, wore the eyes of a veteran going to war, just as I had expected.

That she had been able to return alive from the Afghan battlefield where sand and dust raged was not simply because she was lucky.

-Cheolkeok.

“Exactly twelve rounds. I finished loading in advance.”

Watson spoke as she raised the mechanical sight hidden in her cane.

A weapon different in both length and thickness from the cane she usually carried.
It was a pricey Kung-Fu Cane dedicated to Fingertips, bought with her wages from Bartholomew’s Hospital.

Because she had not yet finished paying it off and feared it might even get scratched, it was an unused cherished weapon Watson had never taken out except on important days, and after buying it for the royal ball, she had taken it outside the boarding house for the first time on that day.

In other words, this was the first time she had ever truly aimed her cane at another person.

“Perfect. Then I may look forward to your performance.”

When I answered, Watson nodded heavily.

Watson’s new weapon was model number D.44, favored by masters of Fingertips even among the lineup of Henry Howell&Co, London’s greatest cane manufacturer.

Henry Howell&Co’s masterpiece, made from processed centenarian green bamboo with a pure-silver grip of high Essence conductivity, possessed every function a Fingertips practitioner required, and beyond the mechanical sight Watson had just deployed, it also applied innovative Kung-fu principles, such as compressing power in advance and storing it in the bamboo nodes.

After brutal training in the army, Watson’s internal energy in both quantity and quality surpassed Kung-Fuists of a similar realm, but if she expended a large amount of internal energy at once, there was the threat that the side effects of meridian blockage disorder would flare.

However, by storing power in the Snow Halation Iron dagger I had given her and producing sword aura, she found a way to resolve that problem, at least in part.

Thus, when buying Henry Howell&Co’s D.44 to shore up her weakness by a similar principle, Watson showed not the slightest hesitation.

Since she had long been storing a considerable amount of power in her dagger, and since she had wrapped her left arm in a shawl made of Ancient Vicuna Wool, there was no chance her Yin Qi would run rampant from something as simple as fighting underworld men.

“We can begin at any time.”

Seeing Watson show her eagerness, I nodded.

While Lestrade and Scotland Yard’s inspectors and constables spread their encirclement and drove the Camorra’s London branch underworld men toward the Isle of Dogs’ center, we intended to strike at once at Venucci, a true disciple from their Naples home base and a special-grade killer.

“Before that, there is one thing I want to ask of you, Watson.”
“Hm? What is it.”
“It would be best if we can take the underworld men alive, but if your life is endangered by their hands, do not hesitate and open the precepts of murder.”
“……”

Watson hesitated for a while, then spoke.

“Of course. Though I have stepped back from the battlefield, I am still a proud soldier of the British Empire. I have never enjoyed killing, but in Afghanistan I have struck out again and again to protect myself.”
“Only now can I be at ease.”

I had worried that Watson’s kindness and her sense of duty as a doctor might catch her ankle, but it seemed my worry was needless.

Even from her red eyes filled with resolve, it was clear she was a Kung-Fuist who could make a firm decision when the moment demanded it.

“…Well, to tell the truth, I have no memory of training so negligently that I would be done in by third-rate riffraff who harass commoners with paltry skill. If I strike them so as to miss the vital spots by just enough, they will weep and wail and beg for their lives.”

Still, I found it impossible to grow accustomed to Watson’s expression as she said it and smiled nastily.

Then again. After living so long as the British Empire’s proud Gentleman, there was no chance she would be swayed by pity and show her weakness to underlings.

“When a Super Junior is this fervent, I cannot very well stand idle either.”

Meanwhile, Sir Fawcett, listening to our conversation, was lifting the corners of his mouth high as if delighted.

“To be honest, back in Cambridge, I was itching to death from having to lie still and play dead. Today, at least, I wish to fulfill a postman’s duty, so leave me my share.”
“How could I refuse, Minister.”

Watson clenched her fist and smiled at Sir Fawcett.

“However, when you say a postman’s duty, what exactly….”
“It is to safely deliver mail that has crossed the sea to its destination.”
“There is no mail here—”
“Ho ho. If we bind up the underworld men and bring them to Scotland Yard, is that not a postman’s work.”

-Udeudeuk.

Each time Sir Fawcett cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, the sound of joints rang out.

The Postmaster General swung the flexible, long limbs he had fashioned through the external skill cultivated by the Christianism Clan’s Kung-Fuists, Eight Layers Of Silk, and strode toward the warehouse.

The last reason I did not stop Watson was his presence.

While I went into the dockside warehouse over there to strike Venucci, Watson and Sir Fawcett would beat down every underworld man who tried to flee outside.

From the day I first met him, he had already set foot in the transcendent realm.
And now, after meeting the Vermilion Phoenix upon the sea, he had attained an even higher achievement.

If we moved with him, there would not be even a one-in-ten-thousand chance Watson would be put in danger.

“Then, shall we begin.”

We confirmed that an underworld scout, having grasped the police’s movements, dashed into the warehouse.
We began our assault at once.

First, neutralizing the lookouts was the priority.

-Tatat!

Using lightness skill, I ran toward the underworld men keeping watch around the warehouse.

“Who the hell—”
“Keuak!”

There was no need even to draw my sword.

Even simply holding the Heavenly Demon Cane in reverse and sealing their points with the end of the handle, the Italian underworld men fell to the floor like leaves.

They were so low-grade beyond what I imagined that a laugh nearly escaped me.

‘I heard the Camorrista of Naples, the home base, were formidable, but the branch members are nothing but a ragtag rabble.’

-Shyuk!
-Tatakk!

Watson, who also did not wish to announce our approach yet, threw long needles and sealed the mute points of underworld men shaken by my appearance.

After seeing palace maids throw projectiles and fire poison needles at the royal ball, she threw herself into training alone for several days, and it seemed she picked up the knack faster than expected.

“Pardon me for a moment.”

-Pajik!
-Teolssuk!

Lastly, Sir Fawcett, who closed in at a speed incomparable to before, brushed his hand across the napes of underworld men who could not even scream, and five fell to the floor in succession.

He had subdued them in an instant by deploying Eight Cloud Dragons and Lightning Clap at the same time.

-Hwaak!

What remained where the Postmaster General passed was a faint mist, and within it, traces of Brain Stopper running through.

The Camorrista did not even realize what method had struck them, and simply fainted.

Now all that remained was to bring down Venucci and the remnants inside the warehouse, and rescue Beppo.

About ten seconds passed after I approached the entrance and knocked.

“Who’s there?”

At last, a voice sounded from within.

I wrapped Essence around my throat and decided to lure the underworld man out by imitating the voice and manner of Rossetti, the youngest of the London branch.

“Ah, senior brother. It’s me. Rossetti.”
“…You’re thirty minutes later than yesterday.”
“Sorry. Delivery work piled up.”

The moment I said that much, a strange sense of incongruity seized me.

The Camorra is the most secretive and cruel underworld faction even in Italy.

Yet at the entrance of this warehouse they had occupied, there was no hole or anything of the sort to peek outside.

Which meant there was a way to tell whether the one outside truly was an ally, without relying on sight.

From the beginning, even Rossetti’s meek cooperation had been suspicious.

It was true I had used Mrs. Hudson’s British-style Italian food to break Rossetti’s spirit, but even so, it was unnatural for him to violate the vow of silence Omerta and reveal so easily the place where a home-base disciple was staying.

-Ku-goong.

The moment my thoughts reached that point, the heavy door opened, and pitch-black darkness opened its mouth toward me.

-Bwoong!

Sensing danger and deploying my eye technique in time, I was able to catch the shape of a spiked mace flying at my skull.

“Holmes!”

Watson’s voice struck my eardrums, but soon it grew faint under intense concentration.

The underworld man’s weapon was a Unique Weapon, a Morning Star, a long rod of metal bristling with sharp spikes.

Before its power could be maximized, I deliberately stepped toward him.

What mattered was seizing the initiative.

My left hand, forming a sword seal. I folded my middle finger, wrapped power around the tip of my index finger, and thrust it toward the mace’s spike.

-Jjeong!

As my eyes rapidly adapted to the darkness, the underworld man’s shocked face entered my view.

No doubt about it. This was Pietro Venucci, the one whom I had seen even in my previous life.

After a brief provocation passed between us, Venucci immediately retrieved his cherished weapon and followed with the next move.

“I’ll crush your skull……!!”

The special-grade killer’s fame was not won for nothing.He came at me, swinging freely the Morning Star whose center of mass was biased toward the head.

The Morning Star was a blunt weapon that deliberately destroyed balance to maximize destructive force.

Yet strangely, Venucci swung it along trajectories that were difficult to predict.

Movement harder to read than Irene Adler controlling a Meteor Hammer with Essence.

The tale that the Camorra’s Kung-Fu is abstruse and difficult to counter, allowing even a Kung-Fuist a realm higher to be fought, was no empty talk.

But—

‘It’s plain as day.’

The moment I beheld the Qi flowing between heaven and earth, my eye technique leapt into a new realm.

When I gathered Essence into my eyes, I could see the size and direction of the Qi flowing inside the Morning Star.

“Hoh…….”

Among the three realms of eye technique generally granted only to Kung-Fuists who have stepped into transcendance, this was the domain called Seeing Color.

“You carry a precious item that does not suit your station.”

An unexpected gain.

Having grasped the secret hidden within the Morning Star, I immediately drew the blade of the Heavenly Demon Cane.